


Night

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m not even certain there is anything left of me for a Dementor to take, and the thought is somehow comforting</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night

The thing no one warns you about is that it doesn’t hit you over the head and drag you off as a prisoner. It sneaks into your soul, takes hold, and waits. I thought I would be fine, that I was stronger than the people I knew who had succumbed, that I could get out of this hell in one piece. That I would bear only the physical scars from those years and nothing more. I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

It occurs to me, as I sit here in the last place on the planet I want to be, that everything is going to hell and doing it in a hurry. The stars are out, the sky is beautiful and clear, a cold, deep Scottish night that should be perfect. Instead, I’m on the edge of the observatory platform, hands white knuckled on the railing and trying to talk myself down from temptation once more. I hear a sound behind me and spin around, wand already outstretched though I doubt I’ve the clarity of thought to actually defend myself if it comes down to it.

Before me stands our world’s hero, with his messy hair and the eyes that seem decades older than they were only a few short years ago. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me with those ancient eyes and comes to stand beside me. We look out at the sky together, the chill seeping into our bones as we drift in our own heads. I wonder sometimes what brings him up here, what demons lurk in his mind. We don’t discuss it, though, this late night companionship. I imagine, though, that he carries the same unbearable weight that has settled around me like a leaden shackle. 

Some nights, there are silent tracks of tears down one of our faces. Sometimes it’s a hand on a shoulder. Once, he wrapped me in his arms and held me tightly as I sobbed for reasons I still can’t explain even to myself. I’ve done the same for him, but no words have been exchanged at any point. I think we’re both afraid to shatter the silence, fearing that doing so would bring this tenuous something to an end. Tonight, there is nothing but the quiet Scottish night, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl above us. 

As dawn begins to come over the castle, he turns and leaves, one hand lingering on my shoulder, squeezing gently in silent reassurance. I watch him as he goes, waiting until I’m certain he has descended the winding staircase before I head down it myself. I go through my morning routine, tired from lack of sleep but calmer than I had been when I dragged myself skyward in the middle of the night. Pansy shoots me a concerned look over the breakfast table, but my glare stops her from asking any questions. I don’t have answers, or at least not any she wants to hear.

How do I explain to her that I’m broken, fundamentally, utterly shredded? I’m not even certain there is anything left of me for a Dementor to take, and the thought is somehow comforting. I can’t be broken further, and the idea of no longer having anything to lose makes me less fearful of anyone taking more from me than the Dark Lord and Father managed to steal away. Someday I will thank the Weasley mother for taking Auntie Bella out of the picture. That woman was in my head too deeply when she taught me Occlumency, and there was too much there that needn’t ever see the light of day. 

When night comes again, I fall exhausted into my bed and sleep until a nightmare sends me rocketing into wakefulness at 3AM. I take a long shower to wash away the panic sweat and the lingering memories of hands upon me before making my way skyward once more. He’s already there, sitting cross legged on the ledge when I arrive. I drop to the stone floor beside him, and he scoots closer to me when I begin to shiver. I forgot to even don a cloak in my hurry to get out of my room. A few moments later, we’re both wrapped in his and my head is on his shoulder, breathing in time with him as he shares his warmth and the security that I so badly need tonight. 

I look out over the grounds, and as I so often do, I wonder if it would hurt, to simply leap over the edge and freefall into eternity. I imagine the ground rushing up to meet me, my bones shattering upon impact, my heart stuttering to a halt. I wish, as I sometimes do, that I had the courage to follow through with the temptation. He seems to sense what I am thinking, because his arm around my shoulders tightens and he reaches with the other hand to take my wrist, as though anchoring me to this place. I take a long, shuddering breath in, screwing my eyes tightly shut against the tears that threaten. I lose the battle, and he turns me in his grip until I am resting with my head against the crook of his neck, bawling like a child and shaking so hard it’s a wonder he can even keep a grip on me. I cry hard enough that I have to turn away from him, as my gulping breaths turn to retching. He rubs my back, even as I shift onto hands and knees when my stomach clenches. A conjured bowl is before me, and though I don’t end up needing it, I am grateful. 

The episode finally loses its grip on me, and I roll to my side, face pressed to the cool stone of the floor. A damp cloth moves over my face and neck, cleaning the tears and sweat, mopping up the aftereffects without a word. Tonight, when dawn breaks over the forest, I descend the stairs with an arm under my shoulders to steady me. I don’t return to the dorms, shepherded instead to the room of requirement and a soft bed that waits patiently for me. I am tucked beneath the covers and watch as he settles himself in a second bed after handing me a phial from his pocket. Dreamless Sleep, that elusive draught the matron refuses to provide me. I wonder how he comes to have it, but cannot bring myself to truly care as the drowsiness overtakes me and I drift in glorious silence inside my mind.


End file.
